She sleeps in a tower of carved sugar. Twenty mattresses, petal-soft, silk braided with mermaid hair.
A hundred years shall the princess sleep.
But moments of clarity do pierce through the haze, the thick tangle of dreams that weigh down Sara's lids.
Then she feels the caress of sheets against her cheek, hears the whoosh of the wind blowing through the thorn forest outside.
For a heartbeat.
Then the arms of the curse—sleep!—seize her body again and drag her back into that net, blue midnight, black midnight, ever-after midnight.
She sleeps so long part of her expects she must be withered and old, parchment skin on her bones, pure white hair on her pillow.
But that is not the witch's plan, of course. Sara is not meant to suffer—or rather, her suffering is means to an end. Useful only so long as it makes her whole family suffer.
The House of Tancred, who dared to insult Queen Morgan some way or other. How is Sara to know? She was just a child, then.
When she is twenty years of age, the princess shall prick her finger on a poisoned rose, and she will fall into a hundred-year sleep.
If Sara had aged, in her unnatural slumber, it would have broken the crystal cruelty of the curse. Her father and mother should age, as should all her brothers and sisters, so they could measure on Sara's untroubled beauty every day, year after year, the true weight of Queen Morgan's curse.
Everyone that Sara knew would grow old and die, and she, the favorite child, heir to her father's kingdom, would pass out of their lives. Like a beautiful painting on a wall, meaningless, untouchable, yet taunting them with her rosy cheeks, the sugary smell of youth on her lips.
The curse, it is true, could always be broken by true love's kiss.
What curse couldn't?
But Sara was not in the mood, just now, for true love's kiss. Her breath was pasty from all the nectar that fairies pressed daily into her mouth, dew collected fresh from only the reddest roses, every morning. Her muscles cried when she tossed and turned, from the lack of exercise.
And she was so fucking tired.
The curse, rolling her into sleep, wave after wave. It was the weight of a cold, black ocean. Pressing against her. Its tide looming, a huge, terror-striking wave on the horizon. The sort that swallows ten thousand ships in a single gulp.
It thundered:
SLEEP!
And Sara slept.
It was not an awful sleep, either. The ocean wrapped her too tight and steady for nightmares. Sara had been kissed before—maybe not true love's kiss, but how different could it be? Princes eager to woo her in gilded cloaks, to serenade her in the moonlight, when she just wanted to sleep.
There was a twisted irony in there. 'Careful what you wish for.'
As if Sara had wished any of it.
Still. Still.
She's sorry for her father, her mother, her whole family. When awareness snakes through the cracks, and she has the presence of mind to think of them.
But there are worse things than a hundred years of sleep.
For instance, there's awakening.
﴾﴿﴾﴿﴾﴿
Paul slices through walls of thorns and dragon flesh, his boots grind frost-coated leaves, and all the insects that are not fast enough to creep out of his way.
His sword runs with the blood of beasts.
He cuts, beats, and kicks his way through the heart of this accursed forest, until the very trees part to let him through, and the moss beneath his feet shimmies away to avoid the touch of his shoe.
A conqueror teaches everyone who is wise to be afraid of him.
The words of his father flash into his head. And all true princes are conquerors. At least, those history books will commit to memory.
Today is not just any day, and Paul is not just any prince.
Today, he will scale the tower and claim the cursed daughter of Tancred. Villages throughout the Twelve Kingdoms still whisper with the tales of her beauty. "Her father worshipped her," grandmothers tell their daughters, "for she was fairer than the finest flower in King Tancred's garden. And oh, he had ten hundred such flowers, each brighter than the last, but none so precious as his youngest child. The apple of his eye."
Sara, Paul thinks.
A fine, generic name for a princess. Suitable as Paul is for a prince.
Evil tongues will say it's the riches of Tancred's kingdom that brought Paul to the forest, today. Sara of Tancred may be beautiful, but the lands of the Twelve Kingdoms abound with beautiful women. But King Tancred's wealth? A dozen castles, acres of lush green lands and gardens where the trees bow with summer fruit, where you can grow anything that tastes sweet and that waters the mouth with want. The old man is dead, of course, has been dead many a year. But he's promised his kingdom to anyone who would lift the curse and save his daughter.
And in the Twelve Kingdoms, promises are more than words.
"Such a dowry would make you one of the wealthiest princes in all the world," said Paul's father. "Think of it."
Paul stroked his chin, amused. Few things pleased him more than to annoy his father. "Have not many princes tried it, father? I would not be the first to try my sword to the task. The fruits of victory would be sweet, indeed. But all things considered, I would sooner die a noble death, instead of getting eaten by a dragon, trying to carve a path to a princess's thighs."
A loud smack, as his father slammed his book on the table. "Can you never be serious?"
Paul smiled. "I live to please, my lord. I will go, if your highness so desires."
But in his heart of hearts? The cold, naked truth?
Paul did not care about the wealth, or being an obedient son. In theory, he should not care about beauty, either. Legendary or not. Courtesans from all over the kingdom came to his bed, each more beautiful than the last.
He might not have gone if the image of history books had not drawn his eye so. Thin pencil strokes: a defiant chin, eyes wide as a desert, and hair the color of dragon fire.
The heart of the matter is, Paul is still one to let a woman catch his eye, and go to the lengths required to sate his appetite.
He likes a challenge.
A curse, a dragon, a forest of thorns and monsters.
How much higher can the bar get?
﴾﴿﴾﴿﴾﴿
The dragon's cry bleeds through the night. A tidal wave, bloody and red, releases throughout the forest and swallows all the kingdoms for miles around.
Sara doesn't hear it.
Her sleep is too deep. The sugary air swells up her lungs, smelling slightly wet with rain. King Tancred did not think of bad weather when he had this castle built for his daughter. Pink sugar for her tower, chocolate and fudge for the bricks at the bottom. In between, anything goes. Braided vanilla for the lattice on the windows, puff pastry sculptures filling the halls, caramel tiling. Fairies have blessed the construction so it would not melt or crumble.
But even in her sleep, Sara can always tell when it's raining, because then the air tastes of a bathtub that has been filled with candy and cake.
The dragon cry does not wake her, although, impossibly, the prince scaling the wall of her tower does.
She doesn't hear it.
His boots, piercing through brittle sugar, which the wind scatters into pink dust.
Bam. Bam. Bam.
Somehow, she feels it.
Feels the delicate carvings crumble beneath black boots, his hands tearing chunks of sugar off that tumble a hundred feet below.
She tosses and turn. It's all she can do. In her heart, a nervous thrill—someone is going to trouble her sleep, she just knows it. There have been occasional attempts, over the decades. Princes whose chests would brim with youth and bravery, and their heads not too sharp or keen. Usually, it ends with the dragon biting them off.
Sara tries to relax.
The prince will plummet to his death, like all the others, and she can go back to sleep.
Truly.
She just wants to sleep.
The prince hoists himself through the window. They are too small for him, have been designed to let only birds through, and the breeze. So he gives a grand kick.
CRACK.
Then lands on the floor gracefully. It must be graceful, because there is no thud, no irritated exclamations like, Blast, or, By the saints!
Sara does not see it. Even as alarm drills into her, the reality of someone breaking into her tower, she cannot lift her eyelids, cannot surmount the irrepressible black ocean weighing down her whole being—
SLEEP!
Then his weight, unmistakable, on the bed. This bed that has born no body but hers for the past hundred years. He crawls to her like a sword tracing a scar into the soft sand of a conquered island.
Sara thinks, Run.
In her dreams, she does. She runs through a field of red blossoms and the land helps her, guides her footsteps so that his long strides are no match for hers.
It's so hard, after all this time, to tell what's real from what's dream.
His hands latch around her wrists and she feels that, at least, is real.
A gasp escapes her. To be touched by rough hands instead of soft sheets. For the male smell of sweat and dirt to enter her mouth, instead of the nectar rubbed into her parted lips.
She tries to slip away. It's so easy to slip away, in dreams. One place melts into another, and Sara can always give her dreams a push, shape her prison into what she likes.
But the hands are hard and strong, and have a will of their own.
She thinks she hears the prince laugh.
Horror spears through Sara, thick as a spider leg, as his tongue plunges into her mouth.
﴾﴿﴾﴿﴾﴿
Paul can't stop himself from laughing at the princess's efforts to fight him off. That is not how it happens in picture books. Her face is as pretty as advertised, and the shape of her body—ah, he really has to work it out through the layers of satin and silk. But it's enough to kindle the fire, which starts in the pit of his stomach. To whet the appetite which he usually spends on half a dozen girls during the night.
So he hasn't gone through all the trouble for nothing.
Paul licks his lips, as he contemplates her.
He's never had a princess before.
Her wrists wriggle into his hold and when he bends down to kiss her, she tastes of rosebuds and sugar. Actual sugar.
It tears a full-blown chuckle out of him. The kiss draws her out of her haze, and she moans against him. Not an Oh my sweet prince, kiss me again moan.
He runs his tongue against her lips, to taste the sugar again, then lets go of her hands, and draws back. She'll need a few minutes to emerge. Paul wouldn't stop at such niceties, true, but the sugar has awakened a different kind of appetite. This whole damned place is made of food. The bedpost crumbles under his touch, sand-colored. Butter biscuit. Paul tears a chunk out which he shovels into his mouth.
Sara opens her eyes.
They are nice, legend-material eyes. Wide enough that her whole face changes when she opens them. Paul admires her, while he eats. The mouthful of biscuit chewed and swallowed in a matter of seconds, he tears out a bar from the bedpost, red candy that he sucks on pensively, watching his princess.
Her eyes open windows on the world of dreams she has departed. They gleam with the wonders she has lived amongst, the fabric of magic and bliss he has torn her out of.
"Milady," he says. "I trust you've had sweet dreams?"
She sits up, and wipes the wetness of his kisses with her sleeve.
"That's not very princess-like."
She looks at the stick of candy in his hand, his mouth full of food. "That's not very chivalrous."
Ah. He always liked a woman with a comeback. They'll get along fine.
"Yes, my apologies. It was such a long journey, to get to you. Then you wouldn't imagine the hassle a dragon can be. Not to mention, running around the forest, and climbing that wall. I'm hungry enough to eat a horse. Which I might, on the way back, seeing as mine collapsed at the border of the woods. But why bother going back, when everything here is so… delicious?"
He roams her body with his eyes. She notices.
The sheets have pooled at her waist, and she grabs a fistful to cover her chest with.
A smile tugs at his lips.
Like he came all this way, slayed a fucking dragon, not to claim her as his.
He rips another piece of bedpost, puff pastry, twisted with cinnamon and cream. "Would you like some?"
Her eyes, cautious. Holding the sheets to her body. Paul has hunted prey before, knows the way an animal sneaks glances at all the exits. Right this second, his lovely, fresh-from-sleep princess, is deciding if she will dart left or right, make for the window or the staircase. Escape him.
"No, thank you, my lord."
"Really, you should get your strengths back."
"For what?"
The glint in his eyes must be answer enough, because she swallows, and inches farther back, on the mattress.
"Well, princess, do you not remember the terms? Only true love's kiss would break the curse. I've kissed you. You're awake."
She feigns to consider. Her mind is still set on escape. She's decided on the window. She'll jump, and a magical carpet will appear to fly her off, a pair of wings will break the skin of her back, or something.
"I always thought that whole true love thing was an exaggeration."
"You and me both."
He clasps her arm when she motions to get up. A cry escapes her. Oh.
"I was just—"
"No, no. Don't lie to me. Let's play level with each other. I won't treat you like a foolish maiden, if you don't treat me like a dumb prince. I broke the curse. I freed you from your hundred-year sleep."
Through lashes, delicate as cobweb, she studies him. "Thank you?"
"You're welcome. Well. So to speak. As a matter of fact, I'll take a few things in return. For starters," he embraces the room with his hand, the one that isn't holding her arm. "Your kingdom. It belongs to me, now. Those were the terms."
"Yes. Sure."
Her small chest lets out a breath. He senses her relief.
"You can have it. All the gold we have—"
He grabs her chin with one hand.
"The gold is nice, princess. But that's not what I mean. All the subjects who have been living in waiting, without a man to call King. All the servants who have worked for the past hundred years, keeping every castle and every shop polished to a shine. All the horses, in the stables, down to the mice that creep in the streets. That's all mine. Every soul here. Yes?"
She doesn't say, Yes.
Poor thing. Fell asleep too young for her father to teach her how to own somebody. How can she give what she has never considered hers to begin with?
He cocks his head to the side. "Of course, you're mine, too. I should think it went without saying."
He releases her face. She moves back, puts as much distance between them as she can. But she doesn't crawl. Does not cower, or lower her eyes from his.
She has been raised by a queen, a mother who hammered into her that dignity was the most sacred of things.
"My lord, I am grateful to you for rescuing me. Truly. Rewards are in order and you will be rewarded." She licks her lips.
He could interrupt her, but it's more fun to watch her finish.
"What you ask for cannot be granted. Gold, and castles, and yes, kingship. But not—"
He smacks her across the face.
The red shines there, instantaneous, a rose bouquet blooming on her cheek.
She lets out another sweet, princess-y gasp, pressing a palm to the sting.
He could get used to this.
It's clear the woman has never been treated rough. A father who doted on her, most likely. These days, husbands need to do all the teaching.
He shrugs, by means of explanation. "I told you not to treat me like a dumb prince. Play straight with me. You're not grateful I rescued you. You don't think I know you'd rather be napping for another hundred years right now? So. Don't take me for a fool. I'm not the sort of man who's given rewards. I win them. Then I take what I'm owed. We understand each other, princess?"
Her jaw squares.
In a way, it's better like this. Did he expect her to yield so easily, ripe summer fruit just begging to be plucked from the tree? She's not one of his courtesans, eager to open their thighs for him. Most likely, this one is still maiden. To take her, cold as an ice statue, untempted by pleasures of the flesh—well. At least he'll know what it feels like to fuck a princess. A real princess.
"You disgrace yourself, my lord."
"Oh, I do." He rips more pastry from the bedpost, and eats. The disgust on her face is priceless. "Give me a few minutes, I'll disgrace you plenty."
She tries to wriggle from his grasp, but all that sleep can't have left much muscle left in that slim, surprisingly tight body. He keeps his hand latched around her arm, like a vice. And eats, and eats. He grins, as he licks flecks of cake from his teeth.
"Let me go."
"No. You're sure you don't want to eat anything?"
She gives up trying to wriggle away. In the end, she has too much pride to keep fighting him off, shining light on how strong he is, on how she is so obviously at his mercy.
"Because," he says, "once we get started, I won't give you time to rest. You understand? I have such an appetite, princess. You would blush to hear of it. But no, no blushing now. It won't do you any good."
He draws her against his chest, and she bites back a moan. Stops herself from showing how much he repels her. How refreshing.
"There's no need to play shy with me. In a way, it's a good thing you've spent a hundred years, locked in that tower. Now you're here, with me," he grins. "Let's just say, it'll be a while before you get any sleep."
Ϟ Ϟ Ϟ
Underground, Michael hears the cry of the dragon, as the sword pierces through belly flesh, sheathes itself into warm entrails. All of the Twelve Kingdoms hear, of course, but the scream is especially vivid to those in the Kingdom of Tancred. A long claw, raking against their throats. For a hundred years, generation upon generation, the inhabitants have learned to live with the dragon.
To live in fear.
To hide in the smallest, dirtiest corners when the woosh of her great wings battered the sky. To hold their breaths and pray she would feast on some other, when she did not get her fill from foolish princes, or from the other creatures that live in the forest.
Michael knows how to hide—not run. It's pointless to try and outrun a dragon. His pants pockets are plump and lumpy with cloves, because the smell is said to repel her. Anyways, underground, where he spends nineteen hours a day, the chances of running into the dragon are slim to none.
But then he lives in fear for a hundred different reasons.
The muscles ripple beneath his shirt as his pickaxe bites into rock. DING. DING. DING.
The monster's death cry does not stop Michael, or the other workers. Past a pause of awed surprise, it does not stop the drilling. Nothing stops the drilling. If the overseer catches Michael dawdling about, he'll be laid off. And then what will happen to his brother?
DING. DING. DING.
Another worker comes near, shoveling the debris Michael leaves in his wake. Sucre. The arms still move. Cramps shoot up his shoulder from the weight of the pick, the mechanic, repetitive movement spreads poison through his arm. Still Michael doesn't stop.
"The dragon is dead," Sucre says.
"That's absurd."
"Everyone Above is talking about it. Her body lies speared on the great trees of the forest, like a piece of chicken breast on a fork."
Michael shakes his head. Sucre has never tasted chicken breast, probably has no idea what chicken breast looks like.
"I tell you," Sucre says. Punctuates with whooshes as he scoops dirt and rocks off the ground, dumps them into a barrel. Gleams like glass shards wink from the pile of ash. Diamonds, rubies and sapphires, large as Michael's fist.
"You tell fables," Michael persists.
"No. Not this time. Things are going to change."
Michael laughs. A deep, sincere laugh, because what other kind is there? Here there is nobody to laugh for. Nobody to impress. "We get up at five, go to bed at midnight. We dig for rocks that the court will wear on jewels, and if they knew those gems had bloomed in such a nest of spiders and rats, they'd scrub their skins red. We work and work. Tired. Hungry. Nothing changes."
"Michael, the dragon is dead. The princess is claimed. We have a new king in town."
A shiver runs down Michael's spine. A new king in town.
Since King Tancred's death, fifty years ago, the noblemen have taken over the court. If Tancred had had no living heir, it would have been simpler. The throne would have gone to next of kin. But the princess was very much alive, in her gingerbread castle. How to appoint someone else, without disinheriting her, and create cause for civil war when she at last broke out of her eternal slumber?
Eight men and women, from the greatest houses, gathered into a Council, supposed to handle the kingdom 'until the princess awakes to take her throne'. It was a long time before Michael was even born. Life under the Eight is all he has ever known.
He shakes his head. Realizes, with dismay, that his pickaxe has stopped working.
DING. DING. DING.
"So what if we do?" he says. "The court will still love sparkling rocks blue and white and green. They'll still hunt the best game and leave us with rats, will still eat all the golden wheat and we can sort out all the black, rotten crops, and put it in the soup that you and I drink. Nothing changes, Sucre. All kings are the same. Else they'd wear something more original than that circle of gold on their blasted heads."
...
End Notes: I have no literal idea where this came from. Please share your thoughts in the comment section!